The Silence of a Spinning Top
by the sleepy queen
Summary: Shacklebolt's assassination marked the beginning of it all. A snapshot of insidious oppression.


AN: Written for Round Six of the Quidditch League Competition.

* * *

Shacklebolt's assassination was the beginning of it all.

It was sudden. A disgruntled Muggleborn, shouting about unfair treatment and erasure and a flagrant lack of reparations. Then, an old, forgotten curse pierced the air without warning, a violet beam connecting the man to Shacklebolt, snaking around their necks in the blink of an eye. Both men fell and everything descended into chaos.

A murder-suicide. An assassination. A moment heard across the Wizarding World.

Those with blood less than pure collectively held their breath.

* * *

"Azkaban could drive anyone insane."

"It's all quite unsurprising."

"Any of them could snap. We need to do something."

Penelope memorized every petty remark and held them close to her heart. The world was rumbling and she was afraid.

* * *

"Everything will be fine, Penny. Rothwood is a great wizard. He's been in the foreign service for decades and has a good record with Muggles and Muggleborns. He says he'll try to help everyone affected by the war. There's no reason to be nervous, Penny. He'll help you."

Penelope nodded numbly, but her mind wouldn't stop screaming. Percy was right; everything seemed to be fine. Yet that witches' instinct buried deep inside caused her skin to crawl, flashing her back to another time when Percy assured her everything would be fine.

She bought a small, silver gun the very next day. This time, she would be prepared. This time, no one was going to leap out of the fireplace and drag her down to hell.

* * *

It started with the therapy sessions, designed to help erase the shadows of torture from the minds of the unlucky. Therapy to help Muggleborns assimilate better into Wizarding society . It was a move that was lauded by most, a benign effort to ease the difficulty of Muggleborn children's transition into the often confusing Wizarding world. An effort to help those who had been scarred the worst by the war. Of course, they were mandatory for the Muggleborns who had been drowning in Azkaban's despair. The Ministry could definitely fix them and prevent any more unfortunate breakdowns. They would help everyone regain normality.

And that's what the whole thing was about, after all. Aiding those who needed it, whether they asked for help or not.

* * *

It was one of those midsummer Sundays when Penelope and Percy sat, limbs entangled, and drank Elvish wine. He gently tugged at the loose yarns dangling from the sleeves of her oldest jumper, whispering to her about his week. A tradition cemented in the darker days, when the air was filled with the corpses of dementors and seemingly insurmountable survivor's guilt.

Sundays had brightened over the years. Wine instead of whiskey, titters instead of tears.

"So, if Goldstein talks the immigration lobby down, our bill is pretty much assured to pass. I haven't a doubt in my mind of his success, though; the chap, unsurprisingly, is worth his weight in gold," Percy said, chuckling at his own terrible pun. Penelope charitably offered him a smile.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as Percy waited for Penelope to share. Briefly, she considered voicing her reservations about her appointment at the newly formed Department of Psychological Rehabilitation, but she dismissed the thought. Mental health had been ignored in the Wizarding world for far too long and the warnings shrieking from inside her pores were nothing but nerves.

Maybe therapy could fix that. Fix the incessant paranoia.

"Yates is definitely going to retire at the end of the year and Sexton strongly hinted I'm her first pick to take over his position," Penleope said, settling on a safe topic. It was hardly news; she had been a shoo-in for director ever since she started the job. Brilliant Penelope Clearwater-Weasley, hardworking and ambitious.

* * *

Penelope walked into her appointment nervous, both hands in her pockets. One was curled around the mahogany wood of her wand and the other gently stroking the cool metal of her handgun. She'd thought security in the Ministry would be tighter, especially after _the incident._ Guess Muggle weapons still weren't on their radar. Inexcusable arrogance.

The therapist's office smelled sickly sweet, vanilla mixed with a scent Penelope couldn't quite put her finger on. Lemongrass, maybe? But before she could really think about it, she lost her train of thought. Her brain felt muddled. Her thoughts- warnings- were right behind the surface, just out of her grasp.

The room distorted slightly as her vision became blurry.

"Would you like to take a seat, Ms. Clearwater?" A woman with a bright smile asked. She was pretty, in a non-descript way. Big blue eyes and a slight build. Unthreatening. But who was she? How did they even find these therapists? What the hell was making her so dizzy? Penelope blinked rapidly, trying to form words. Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong.

Blonde curls swished behind her and she turned towards the door, ready to flee. Life-saving cowardice.

Then everything went black.

"We can't have that."

* * *

"I turned down the job."

"What?" Percy exclaimed, tearing his eyes away from the letter he was drafting. "Penny, what do you mean? You've been wanting the director's job for years! This is your dream!"

Penelope shrugged, chopping vegetables nonchalantly. "I don't know, Percy. Working in the ministry is just so time-consuming. I don't even know if I want this job. Perhaps we could have children. I'd be more useful at home than muddling around in those office politics."

Before she finished talking, Percy's wand was drawn.

"Reveal yourself, imposter."

Twirling around, she stared at him with wide eyes, not even bothering to draw her wand. "Perce? What are you talking about?"

Percy kept his hand steady, "I've been with Penny for over fifteen years now and you want me to believe she'd say any of that?"

Looking around frantically, Penny looked confused and hurt. "What are you talking about? I decide that family is more important than work and you suddenly don't even know who I am? I'm more than just ambition, Percy."

Still stubbornly holding his wand up high, Percy asked, "How many times did I propose before you said yes?"

"Twelve."

"What is my favorite food?"

"Chocolate frogs, but you don't tell anyone because you think it's childish."

"What was the third line in the poem I read to you on our wedding night?"

"Your smile is a broken raft in a flooding river."

And as Percy finally lowers his hand, Penelope flies into his arms, smelling like dried apricots and fresh grass and he's sure it's her. And he holds her close, apologies drying up in his throat.

He discretely peppers questions through dinner, subtly interrogating this girl who seems to be Penny and fails to find any cracks. This girl humors him like Penny (she smiles at all of his awful jokes) and eats like Penny (her food never mixes and she saves her favorites for last) and talks like Penny (with a pervasive but barely noticeable drawl inherited from her American mother).

Yet, despite everything, Percy knew there was something off. Penelope suddenly seemed so different from the girl who had rejected him eleven times.

When had he stopped paying attention?

* * *

She wasn't the only one. One by one, Muggleborns dropped out of high profile jobs (except for a certain Hermione Granger, always too important to be touched). Muggleborn students began to perform at a slightly lower standard than their peers. The old bigots whispered to themselves again about blood superiority, but no one paid them much mind. The changes were too insidious to cause uproars.

After all, the Muggleborns just seemed _happy._ Happier than they ever seemed before.

* * *

Percy slept serenely, arm hooked around his wife's growing waist. His wife who suddenly had rose pink cheeks and crayola yellow hair and clear sky eyes which had never seen despair.

Comforted by the smell of dried apricots and fresh grass, Percy slept soundly next to a girl who smiled like a stranger.

A girl who was almost Penny.


End file.
